


Sittin' like a prince, perched in his electric chair

by peacepen



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (1974), The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Im too lazy to make it canon compliant, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Nick's Endless Stream of Consciousness Regarding Gatsby, Non Graphic, OCD Nick Carraway, Objectifying women, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Homophobia, Plus its PD now so I dont have to, T4T baby, That's it its just Nick talking about him, Trans Jay Gatsby, Trans Male Character, Trans Nick Carraway, Trans characters written by trans people, bubs - Freeform, but like the normal amount for this book, canon character death, sad I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:41:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28552533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacepen/pseuds/peacepen
Summary: In the early days of the summer, I was inclined to believe that Jay had simply been born this way. I pictured the golden boy, well bred and confident in every move. In the childhood I crafted for him, he drew attention from the day he was born.‘That boy’ The fictional, gossiping women of the imagined town said. ‘I swear, he must be a favorite of Aphrodite. A real life Adonis.’And that beautiful boy grew into the lovestruck man who I spent my new life with upon the sound.This was another foolish and baseless assumption. Gatsby’s very being inspired humans to lie, even to themselves.
Relationships: Daisy Buchanan/Jay Gatsby, Nick Carraway/Jay Gatsby
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	Sittin' like a prince, perched in his electric chair

**Author's Note:**

> Hello I wrote all of this in one go at 1am. Gatsby is Trans, Nick is trans, we are all trans. Title is from someone saved my life tonight by Elton John I just made it masc. Gatsby and Elton are the same man u cant tell me otherwise. not edited by anyone but me. TW because Nick has a lot of period typical internalized transphobia and homophobia. He refers to himself & other transgender men as not real men and things like that. It sucks and if you aren't in the headspace to read that rn please do not! otherwise, enjoy.

I believe that I understand Gatsby better now than anyone ever has. However, everyone who has ever met him believes that they know him, that they understand him. I doubt that any of us are truly correct in this assumption. And we are all aware of it, aware that we are making mere guesses and shots in the dark at Gatsby’s true personality. And yet, we keep trying. Once you had really and truly met Gatsby, you were completely enthralled. Whether you loved him or hated him, he captured your attention from that moment on. You might be inclined to believe that this fascination with him spawned only from his massive wealth. It’s a fair claim to make, and well supported by his barren funeral service. But it is not true.

The conspiracists and pessimists of Long Island would feast on the hold Gatsby seemed to have on all of society. ‘ _ It’s proof that he’s dealing dirty business.’  _ They said, as they sat in his garden. ‘ _ He  _ **_must_ ** _ have dirt on everyone here. Why else would they cling to him so?’  _ The rumors on their lips were then washed away by Gatsby’s own wine. 

Again, they were mistaken in this belief. The way that Gatsby captured the world had nothing to do with the material. But I wouldn’t call it natural, either. I know now that Gatsby’s persona was carefully crafted in pain and perfection. In the early days of our relationship, however, I was just as mystified as everyone else. So enraptured was I that I couldn’t see the simple truths of Gatsby. That we were similar in more ways than I could ever know, and that his character crumbled every moment that time went on. 

In the early days of the summer, I was inclined to believe that Jay had simply been born this way. I pictured the golden boy, well bred and confident in every move. In the childhood I crafted for him, he drew attention from the day he was born. ‘ _ That boy’  _ The fictional, gossiping women of the imagined town said.  _ ‘I swear, he must be a favorite of Aphrodite. A real life Adonis.’  _ And that beautiful boy grew into the lovestruck man who I spent my new life with upon the sound. 

This was another foolish and baseless assumption. Gatsby’s very being inspired humans to lie, even to themselves. 

Jay had grown up poor. This directly conflicted with my original idea of him, but made sense of the whole of his character. He was not ‘well bred’, nor was he confident for most of his life. I was not, and have never been, particularly confident, but I was fortunate enough to be raised with money and care. When I met his father and learned the truth, I could not fathom it. How,  _ how,  _ could this stunning specimen of a man have been born of anything shorter than the stars? If he were not hand crafted by the divine, then how did he stand before me all this time? It could not be real. After much analysis and mental anguish, I determined that the wonder and tragedy of Gatsby was that he was  _ self-made.  _

We were very foolish, and very drunk, the night he first revealed himself to me. One of his parties, before Daisy began to attend. Then, just as it was in the end, it was only us. We stumbled to his bedroom, I leaned on him for support. His hand wrapped around my waist, to keep me from tripping, but regardless of its intention, the hand stirred something within me. Stern, strong, warm and guiding upon my too wide hips. I’d felt this way in his presence before, at least once every time we met. Normally, I could tamp it down.  _ ‘You’re barely making it as it is.’  _ I would tell myself.  _ ‘We do not have the luxury of him. Such things are reserved for women, the right kind. Perhaps even some of the right men. But you are neither of those.’  _

The voice in the back of my head whispered this every time I was cowed by Gatsby’s smile or his laugh or the way he said my name. But it ( _ I) _ was right. I hardly was able to pass as a man and I didn’t need the extra attention of being a homosexual as well. If I let it show, I would surely be done. Even if Gatsby didn’t turn me in himself, he was such a figure of interest I would be found. Castration was the typical punishment for sodomy. Oh, what would happen if they took a scalpel to my manhood and found it missing. 

This very valid and rational fear kept me from ever admitting unnatural interest in Gatsby. Though I was not a big drinker, the liquor I had was enough to silence this voice of reason entirely. 

I allowed myself to press against his arm as we ascended to his private rooms. When we tumbled unceremoniously to his bed, I fell on top of him and stayed there. For a moment we lay, simply staring at each other. I saw him examine me as I studied him. I savored every detail of him. I’m not sure what I looked like, but it must have been quite stupid, because it drew one of his grins out. This only encouraged further inappropriate behavior on my part. I dared to shift my full weight upon him and nestle into his neck. It lasted for long enough that I could draw in a deep breath. The scent was a mix of expensive cologne, starch from his perfectly pressed collar and the alcohol that filled him. I delighted in the thought that this moment could last forever, that I could no longer worry about petty things like money and simply live my days indulging in him. It was over soon after that. He let out a sharp groan, nudging me off his chest. I rolled off, pushing myself as far away on the bed as my heart could bear. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t hav-” I rushed to explain. I would need to take my things and go after this, I did not want to. 

“ Its fine, it’s fine. Hush, old sport.” I did. The familiar nickname was of great comfort to me. He was not mad enough at my indiscretion to completely end our friendship, then. 

He reached for the buttons of his shirt. “I’ve just… just been wearing this too long, can’t breathe too good. ‘s no good for a cuddle.”

As he pulled off his shirt, I saw his chest was wrapped in strips of fabric.  _ Why? _ My brain questioned, before I pulled my hands to my own chest. I was fortunate to have been born with small breasts. They were easily concealed with baggier clothing, and I only felt the need to bind them severely when I was wearing tight clothing or meeting someone important. Jay’s chest was covered by several layers of the bandages, the visible skin above them was red. 

I felt the need to look away, but I couldn’t. Just another one of my faults. I would not want anyone to see me, uncovering my chest like that, but I stared at him. It simply could not connect in my mind. How could we be the same? How could he be so confident and assured and successful if we shared the same curse? 

He did not answer these questions for me. Instead, he responded to my gaze with a sluggish, “What?” To which I responded, “Are you alright?” 

He grinned and nodded. “ ‘s okay. I just got bubs.” 

He then dragged me back into a hug and I thought, for a moment, we would speak no more of it. But I couldn’t take it. I could not stop myself from voicing my thoughts and confusion. He had revealed himself to me, so I had to do the same before I had the right to question him. 

“Me too, you know?” 

“I know.” He said, in a warm nonchalance. This bothered me to now end. If he knew, did everyone know? How did Gatsby not register the gravity of this situation? Were they just supposed to speak of it openly now? 

“How do you…” I started, in a hushed whisper, though I didn’t know which question I was going to ask first. “How can you be so public? How can you stand in front of so many people everyday? Aren’t you afraid?” 

He considered that. I was relieved that this conversation would not be completely ruined by our drunkenness. 

“I used to be afraid. And I know that this does make me more likely to be found out.” He paused, and locked eyes with me. “But a secret life? One where I am quiet and hiding, with no attention and no parties. No Daisy? That’s not a life I want.” 

Sometimes I wanted more than anonymity too, and this is part of what drew me to him, but I was too careful. I could never. He could tell I was preparing to speak again, so he pressed a finger to my lips and continued. 

“Listen. I told myself: If I’m going through with it, if I will live as a man, then I will be a  _ great  _ man. I cannot see a point in it. In doing all of the work, and the names and the… it is not worth the change if I am not exactly what I want. If I am not perfect.” 

_ You are perfect.  _ “You certainly are a success.” 

“Mhm.” He sighed. We spoke no more of it after that. He turned us on our sides, cradling me against his bare chest. Soon after he whispered ‘Good night’ and pressed a kiss to my forehead, he drifted into sleep. But I lay wide awake for hours. The revelation had shaken my world view. My alcohol ridden brain could not process it, though I suspect I wouldn’t have known what to think sober either. That was the first chip in the wall to my ‘golden boy’ fantasy for him. No one like us grew up masculinized adoration. I replayed his words over and over in my head that night, and still do. 

_ ‘It is not worth the change if I am not exactly what I want. If I am not perfect.’  _

It seemed reasonable then. Of course he would want himself to be perfect. Why go through the struggle to live if you could not live the ideal? This thought makes sense at first glance. But it cannot be applied to real life. Real, living people make mistakes. Even true men. Especially true men. Gatsby’s greatest fault was that he could not cope with this. 

The charm of Gatsby was both spectacular and sad. The show he put on was amazing. He strutted through life, charming every woman he knew and pissing off any man lesser than him. It was beautiful to watch him and know that this was no natural gift. This was something learned, something achievable for everyone. I knew that I would never be so wonderful, but perhaps I could learn some of it. Gatsby’s show enticed me with the need to be a better man. 

As we grew to know each other, I could see it’s wear on him. Since we shared our body’s secrets, we were much closer. We could talk about anything. We talked about Daisy, and all women. Gatsby certainly loved her, but at times I felt that she was just another piece for him to collect. ‘ _ The man’s american dream is not complete without the perfect woman,’  _ He told me once. He thought of their tragic separation as part of a grand love story, which built his character even further. 

We sat on loungers in front of his pool, bathing in the sunlight as we spoke. He then asked me if I had read any adventure books growing up. I had not. I read boring classical works, though I had grown a taste for them. The depressive side of myself found comfort in Shakespeare and the more recently written works of Oscar Wilde, but I did not read the stories of cowboys and rogues that were constantly published and cheaply available. Gatsby had. He fed upon them as a child, and that’s when he planned out his perfect life. He was attached to the grand story of a man who came from nothing, did some dirty work and suffered a bit, but in the end was rich and got the girl. 

These small truths he shared with me were the hole in the wall. I peeked through at a desperate attempt to find the real man beneath the fabricated layers. Even now, what I know of Gatsby comes from tumbling those small truths around in my head to no end.  _ He was born a woman. He needs to be perfect. He is obsessed with his idea of success. He has nothing else.  _ I think of these things every day, and am not able to think of much else. It seems to me that he was so well rehearsed in the art of being a God, a Hero, that there was no humanness left in him. 

All of this is to say that resigning his charm to only his money is a discredit to his lifetime of work. Though I am not sure that his work was worth anything more than the pain he lived in those last days, or the pain I feel as I review him everyday. 

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](https://transjohnadams.tumblr.com) I am always taking prompts!
> 
> Please take your meds and take care of yourself!


End file.
